Hart had moved fast and Dillon was quickly learning the rules of his game. In a very short space of time he’d hired a private detective agency and posted a small, but still lethal, letter bomb to his private address as a graphic warning.
Dillon put what was left of the Jiffy bag, along with the explosive and the playing cards, into a courier bag and phoned the motorcycle dispatch company that Ferran & Cardini used regularly. Whilst he waited for them to turn up, he pondered what had happened so far. He was worried, puzzled and angry. All this because of a stolen painting? At best, it was overkill.
He sat in his study and wondered what to do. He picked up the phone and called the office, spoke to Vince Sharp for a number of minutes and went over the chain of events that had taken place since his trip to Dorset. He told him that he was sending him the defused letter bomb and asked if he could determine where the contents had been purchased. Vince wasn’t overly optimistic, but said he’d try his best. Dillon hung up. He had deliberately provoked Hart and couldn’t really gripe about what was happening. It was the extent to which Hart had gone that concerned him most. There was something crude about it and yet, at the same time, ruthless. It just didn’t add up. A hardened criminal would have been more specific if believing himself in real danger. The warnings would have been much more barbarous, like a direct threat to Issy or an attack late one night, and he definitely would not have used a detective agency in favour of his own men. It was because none of these things had happened that made him think Issy wasn’t in any kind of danger. But now he was not so sure.
Dillon pulled up in the street outside of the firm’s side entrance. Except for those personnel working in the Special Projects Department, nobody else ever used the solitary doorway at the base of the high-rise building; one of many that rose up high into the sky from the dock area like a bizarre film set.
He placed his right hand onto the black panel in the wall, a moment later, the system had confirmed his biometric profile and the metal door slid back. Dillon went down to the department in the lift, stepped out into the busy artificial environment and headed straight for Vince Sharp and his verdict on the letter bomb. Vince was an overweight Australian with an enviable happy disposition that never faltered. He’d been saved by LJ from a lengthy prison sentence for hacking into HM Revenue & Customs’ computer database, which he did for no other reason than to prove that it could be done. It took him just two hours to crack the passwords. But the contents of the Jiffy bag were proving to be far more difficult.
“I’m afraid I’ve had no luck with that package, Jake. The explosive could have been obtained from any number of criminal sources. The clever little device they used for the switch is obtainable from virtually any retailer who sells musical birthday cards and the like. And as for the Jiffy bag, well the same applies, available virtually anywhere.”
“I thought that might be the case, Vince. But thanks anyway for trying. Mind if I borrow one or two items from the prop’s room?”
“No, you help yourself chum. But don’t forget to sign for everything you take out.”
Dillon walked through to an area where an array of uniforms was hanging neatly on rails. He walked round them and selected the uniform of a Colonel in the Queens Royal Hussars Regiment. From another section, he picked up an assortment of theatrical props, including various wigs, false beards to match, and an assortment of hats, jackets and trousers. He placed everything into a large canvas holdall, and walked back out to where Vince was sitting on a swivel chair at a long workbench.
“Strewth mate, you must be worried,” he said, delving his pudgy hand into the holdall. “Where are you going, a fancy dress party?”
“Let’s just say that Jake Dillon may need to disappear for a while, and quickly, without any hassle,” Dillon remarked.
He picked up the holdall, and walked off to his office to phone Issy. He asked her to run a check on Hart through the national legal database to see if he might have an involvement, or sit on the board of directors, of any UK companies. He hung up before she had a chance to say no or argue with him. He logged on to the firm’s secure server and instantly,the computer screen in front of him opened with the Ferran & Cardini home page. He clicked on one of the icons and was immediately viewing the latest update of ‘who’s who’ in the UK and Europe, but found nothing on Charlie Hart. It was becoming clearly apparent to Dillon that Hart was something of an enigma and most likely wanted it to stay like that.
Dillon drove back across the city to his home, parked and carried the canvas holdall inside, dumping it in the guest bedroom in case Issy saw it. He went round the apartment checking all window locks, and tested the alarm; he was becoming paranoid, which annoyed him.
He went into his study and mused over the plans for the next stage of the theatre’s refurbishment. That evening he cooked pasta, finding this an immensely enjoyable way to unwind at the end of a busy day.
When Issy came home she found Dillon in the kitchen, went straight to him and gave him a big hug and kiss and then led him through into the living room for a well-deserved pre-dinner drink.
“Dinner will be another five minutes, I’m waiting for the Pappardelle to cook.”
“Pappardelle?”
“Tagliatelle to you. Got it fresh from Max at the Italian restaurant round the corner.”
“And what do you call this dish of yours?”
“I hadn’t really thought of naming it. It’s simply Pappardelle, with skinless fillets of smoked trout, flaked into large chunks, tomatoes and garlic. Oh, and a tad of what Max calls ‘his secret seasoning’.”
“Sounds interesting, but I’ve got something important to tell you. Charlie Hart had one of his people contact me today.”
Dillon almost choked on his single malt whisky. Before he’d recovered, Issy added, “He, through his intermediary, wanted to know if I would be interested in taking on some work for him.”
Dillon didn’t say anything for a while, then he asked, “And what did you say?”
Issy laughed.
“He’s really got to you, hasn’t he? And I do believe that he’s actually outsmarted you, Jake Dillon.”
She sipped at her gin and tonic and then added, “That element of uncertainty that you like to have over your opponent. He’s playing the same game.”
“Then he will not be expecting you to turn him down, will he? And be in no doubt about one thing: he’ll compromise you if you do anything for him. You know as well as I do that he’s only approached you for one reason — to antagonise me.”
Dillon took a gulp of his drink
“Well, he’s certainly done that, hasn’t he? Just listen to yourself and the state you’re getting into over it all.”
“It simply doesn’t add up, Issy. Why is he taking this all so personally and what’s he got to hide? Because that’s the real issue here.”
“I agree, he is an odd one. But to be honest with you, Jake, I like the sound of what he wants me to undertake. It’s right up my street, and the fee income wouldn’t go amiss either. One or two of the more senior partners have been rattling their sabres at my lack of new client input. Apart from Ferran & Cardini, I haven’t really bought in anyone of any calibre since I joined just over a year ago.”
Dillon was irritated. “I thought the firm had people who looked after that side of things?”